


The gift of grief, the souvenir of pain

by merle_p



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-08
Updated: 2009-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"People don't think you are beautiful because of your good-looking face."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The gift of grief, the souvenir of pain

**Author's Note:**

> Written November 2009.  
> _Merlin_ belongs to BBC. The title is a line from Robert Nathan's poem _Beauty is Ever to the Lonely Mind_.  
> This was written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/profile)[**kinkme_merlin**](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/) meme. The prompt was _Arthur is disfigured and Merlin has to convince him (A) that he (M) still loves him (A)._

The first few days after he wakes, Arthur doesn't ask for a mirror, and Merlin is grateful for the respite.

***

They couldn't save the finger. Even _if_ Merlin knew how to magically re-attach severed limbs (which he doesn't), there's no chance such a thing would have gone unnoticed. And Merlin cannot afford being found out – not _now_.

The arm itself is better: It was mangled badly, powerful jaw and sharp teeth viciously tearing it apart - but some day, with any luck, it will work just as well as before; even if the scar tissue will probably never heal completely.

The worst, though, is the face: The gash that starts on his right temple and runs down across his cheekbone (just barely missing the eye) and over his cheek to the corner of his mouth, splitting upper and lower lip both, is not healed yet by far, still red and angry and _open_, and it looks like Arthur's face has been cut in two pieces that don't quite fit together anymore.

It's how Merlin felt while he was waiting for Arthur to wake up: Ripped apart, and not being able to properly put himself together anymore.

***

Uther isn't terribly upset.

Oh, of course he was worried in the beginning, terrified even, but. Arthur will recover. He'll still be able to father a child, and he doesn't need his left pinkie to handle a sword. Everything else is negligible; and the noblemen who offer their young or not-so-young daughters' hands, along with remarkable dowries, in exchange for influence and territory, will most certainly feel the same.

Merlin can see the thoughts, clear as day, displayed on Uther's face while he's standing beside the bed, staring down at his sleeping son, and Merlin feels the magic surge through his body, crackle between his fingertips, fueled by grief and helpless rage.

***

The first days are, in a strange way, actually quite nice. Arthur is still too weak to have visitors, so it's just them – Arthur recovering and Merlin tending to him, and only Gaius shows up once or twice a day to examine his patient and tell Merlin what to do; but he usually leaves again rather soon, maybe sensing that his presence is neither needed nor particularly wanted.

Arthur almost died. Which is nothing new, because Arthur has almost-died before, more than once, and the idea doesn't lose its terror, no matter how often it happens. But usually, the almost-dying doesn't last; it's only a moment – a second of fear, until Merlin speaks the words that save him; a day or two, at most, until Arthur has recovered from whatever illness he fell victim to.

Never before has he been on the verge of death for _weeks_, weeks that left Merlin exhausted and desperate, weeks that saw Merlin praying to gods he had never talked to before.

And Merlin decides, when he sees Arthur's eyes flutter open for the first time in too long, that he's not going to leave Arthur's side for a second longer than necessary, not until he has convinced himself that Arthur is not going anywhere. He sits by Arthur's bed for hours, talking until his voice is hoarse, repeating every bit of new information, every rumour that he's heard on his rare trips to the kitchen and Gaius' rooms; and sometimes he reaches out to cover Arthur's good hand with his own, their fingers loosely entwined, lifts both their hands to his mouth, kissing Arthur's knuckles gently. Arthur opens his eyes and gives him a smile, small and secret, and Merlin crawls onto the bed, careful not to hurt the prince, and thinks that he wouldn't mind going on like this forever – just the two of them in this room, the world shut out and far away.

***

It doesn't last, of course.

And Merlin feels the knot in his stomach tightening with each new visitor; with each glance cast in Arthur's direction, full of pity, shock, concern; and when Morgana starts to cry halfway through her visit, telling Arthur between sobs how sorry she is, Merlin knows that the time for delay is over.

"Show me", Arthur says when Morgana has left, breaking the tense silence lingering in her wake, and Merlin stops fluffing Arthur's covers and stares at him with wide eyes.

"What?" he asks, willing his fingers not to shake.

Arthur looks grim and determined. "Show me", he repeats, voice rough. "Hand me the mirror."

"Arthur ..." Merlin hesitates, trying to put off the inevitable, even knowing from experience that whenever they try to out-stubborn each other, they'll just end up stuck.

"_Merlin_", Arthur says sharply, extending a hand, waiting; and reluctantly Merlin obeys, fetches Arthur's mirror – golden frame covered with rubies and emeralds, and a tiny golden lion stretched out lazily on top – and hands it over, fingers trembling.

Arthur stares at his reflection for a long time. His face is completely blank, except for the tiny movement of his cheekbones, indicating that he's clenching his teeth; scar shifting slightly with the tension of the muscles – and then the mirror hits the wall next to Merlin with a surprising force, shattering, and shards of mirror glass and jewels rain to the floor like an enchanted waterfall. Merlin freezes, watching Arthur's face merging into a grimace of rage.

"How could you ...", Arthur growls, groans, "...all those days ...", and Merlin takes a step towards the bed, hands raised halfway, pleadingly.

"Arthur", he starts helplessly, "_Sire _..."

"Get out", Arthur yells, pointing towards the door.

"Arthur, please -" Merlin tries, still approaching Arthur instead of walking away, and Arthur raises halfway to his elbows, eyes narrowed, face white with anger and exhaustion, the scar a pulsing red against the paleness of his skin.

"Get out", he repeats, voice low now, but far more threatening just the same. "Get out now, or I'll get someone to drag you."

And Merlin nods, and swallows, and walks out; sagging against the wall outside the room as soon as the door has closed behind him.

***

There's a portrait in the large stairway leading up to Uther's rooms, showing the king and his son in front of a window leading out to the meadows behind the castle. Morgana told Merlin that Arthur was four when it was done, and Merlin has spent hours in front of the painting, eyes fixed on the little boy, far too serious and stiff for a four-year-old child. Even then – tiny and chubby and looking for all it was worth like the collar of his vest was choking him – Arthur was beautiful.

It's not that Arthur is vain, not in the sense that he places good looks over other, more important things (and the fact that he took Merlin in his bed clearly proves that, Merlin thinks); but Arthur has been told that he's handsome since he was a little boy; and Merlin is painfully aware of the fact that Arthur still worries that people just say it to flatter him; still believes that at best, they want to be close to him because of his looks; and that at worst, it's his position that attracts them and makes them lie about everything else.

Merlin knows better. Of course, Arthur is good-looking, there's no doubt. But that is not what makes people stare, makes a young noble-woman faint in his presence because the constriction of her corset doesn't allow for the swelling of her heart. It's not what makes Merlin, who can hardly stand still for an hour when it's required of him, want to sit down and just _watch_.

It's time, Merlin thinks, that Arthur learned that, too.

***

If Arthur was well, Merlin would give it more time. Would wait a few days, perhaps, let Arthur work off his anger by practicing with his knights, by hunting deer; would give him time to think things through on his own.

At the moment, time to think is the last thing Arthur needs. He also doesn't need more visitors who look at him with a pitiful expression, as if he was, somehow, less than before, as if he wasn't the same man still, strong and noble and beautiful.

So Merlin sends them all off, banishes them from Arthur's room when he arrives later that day, carrying a night meal that contains as many of Arthur's favourites as he could get hold of. Sir Kay and Sir Lionel take one look at him and leave without questions, Morgana seems more reluctant to go, but in the end she does so without protest.

Someone has cleaned up the shards, only a stray ruby glimmering from where it's hiding under the wooden table. Arthur doesn't look at him when he puts down the tray, doesn't look at him when he walks over and settles on the edge of Arthur's bed, not quite touching him, but close enough.

"I thought I told you to leave", Arthur finally says, head turned away, voice hoarse and raspy as if he had been yelling for a long time.

"And I did, didn't I?" Merlin says, far more cheerfully than he feels. "And now I've come back." He reaches out, just a fleeting touch, barely grazing his shoulder, but Arthur flinches nevertheless, and Merlin pulls back his hand and waits.

"I don't want you here", Arthur finally chokes out, angrily. "I don't need your pity."

"You are an idiot", Merlin says firmly, and Arthur's head whips around at that, finally. His eyes are dry, but rimmed with red, from all the tears he hasn't been crying; his mouth tense, a skewed line split in half by the scar that now threatens to create a rift between them as well. Merlin is not going to let that happen.

"This won't make you less a king, you know", he says, almost casually. Arthur makes a strangled sound, somewhere between a snort and a sob, and lowers his eyes.

"I know that", he forces out, and there's so much self-contempt in his voice that it hurts to listen.

Merlin sighs.

"Do you really think I fell in love with you because of your looks?"

Arthur's eyes widen, because they haven't yet talked about this thing between them, haven't yet dared to put it into words, make it more real, and even more assailable, more vulnerable than it already is, knowing that there are so many things that could come between them: kings and wives and wars and death.

But there's no doubt that it's there, that it is love what Merlin feels, and maybe, he thinks, maybe saying it might help glueing together the shattered, scattered parts of his prince, might help healing the hurt that lies deeper than the skin.

"People don't think you are beautiful", Merlin continues quietly, when Arthur doesn't speak, "because of your good-looking face." He tentatively touches Arthur's shoulder again, and this time, the other doesn't tense. "They think you are beautiful because they have seen the way you handle a sword. Because they have watched you crouch down to talk to a little peasant girl. Because they have caught a glimpse of the king you are going to be. Because they've seen you smile."

Arthur's shoulder is shaking slightly under his fingers, and when Merlin looks at him again, there are tears in Arthur's eyes. But he doesn't drop his glance, just stares, even when Merlin's other hand comes up to trace the line crossing his face, carefully, almost touching the lacerated skin, but not quite.

"This", Merlin says, "doesn't change that. It's just a reminder of how selfless you are, how brave."

And while he's still speaking, he watches Arthur's eyes well over, watches misery and grief distort his face, and then Arthur simply falls forward, slumps against Merlin like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and Merlin cradles him against his chest.

"You are still the same", he whispers against Arthur's hair, while the Prince of Camelot is crying in his arms, mourning his loss, "you are still the same to me", and he hopes with all his heart that one day, Arthur will believe him.


End file.
